


Bouquet

by Sparcina



Series: Gotham at Night [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Devotion, Ed is the Riddler too, Exclusive three-way relationship, Fluff, Love, M/M, POV Alternating, Passion, Possessive Behavior, Protectiveness, Sparks and Fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 07:37:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20689862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparcina/pseuds/Sparcina
Summary: They were the three sides of a bristled triangle, the cutting edge of each other's blade, the thorns of the last rose blooming among the ashes of a mad city, Gotham's Unholy Trinity.





	Bouquet

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on a roll. Blame the show.

_(Oswald’s POV)_

Green suited him so well.

He’d always liked that color on Ed, even back when that interrogation mark had irked him so much. It spoke of growth, and oh, did things like to grow around Ed, so much more intriguing than that poison ivy ever would. Anger, desire, yearning: feelings, so many of them, fiercer in this fabulous man’s surroundings. Plans took shape, blossomed in the intricate labyrinth of this unique mind. At his fingertips, reality took flight from its discarded shell and became more, other. He fed riddles to those who wallowed in ignorance… and to those who welcomed them, like himself, the Riddler’s partner in crime. He always awaited them so eagerly, those seeds of mystery, ready that he was to be amazed, his own mind a fertile ground for them to take root and turn his world on its ear.

Green looked good under him as well. Around him, highlighting all that the pale skin, a broad canvas for his naked body, bones like so many arrows pointing out where to kiss, to lick, to suck. Jim was always so prompt in divesting his lovers of their clothes, to tear off the masks they wore outside their nest, and that was why Oswald took great pains to arrange the setting to his own liking. Every piece of clothing he bought for his lovers, every piece of furniture and accessory in their home, down to the precise hue of their bedsheets, was a conscious choice meant to bring out the stormy sky of Jim’s blues, and those emeralds so full of mischief around which played two men, equally loved and worshiped.

*

_(Jim’s POV)_

Purple brought out the sizzling energy within him. Vibrant, violent, a promise of ecstasy. It drew the eye, sharp as the edge of a blade, and dragged it up, just a little, to a face. Chiseled features. Pouty lips, made to kiss until they were slick with spit, thoroughly claimed. The sensual and delicate edge of a jaw. A pointy, straight nose. Sharp cheekbones. Everything about Oswald was sharp, especially those eyes that pierced through you and hooked you back, a trap… or the comfort of home.

Oswald liked to tempt him, to tug at the leash of his temper, and Jim didn’t see red when it finally snapped: he swam in a sea of purple, his body intertwined so closely with Oswald’s that there was no telling where one ended and the other began. Lost into each other, they fed that anger and fed on it with every kiss, every thrust, and suddenly that anger shimmered and morphed into a sweeter brand of desire until at last, they lay side by side linked at the hands, heartbeats slowing down, and only love remained. Love for each other, and for their other lover, a love shared by three very different men whose visions still fit at the seams.

But anger alone didn’t drive Jim into Oswald’s arms. Despair did that, too, and so did passion. Oswald always knew how to take care of him. He would strip him down, piece by piece, and Jim had long ago stopped to argue the careful folding of his bloodied clothes. He stood still, tired beyond words, as Oswald ran those fine-boned hands down his trembling body, taking in all the wounds, the future scars and the bruises that weren’t _theirs_, and whispered his name in his ear.

“Jim.”

It anchored him here, far, far away from variations of madness that weren’t of his own volition. Away from the flow violence that made no sense, killings that brought nothing. Those lips brushing the shell of his ear, they held a spell that never grew old. And while Oswald helped him into a slightly too hot bad, where Ed already waited for him (it was never the Riddler in those moments), he allowed his thoughts to make no sense at all.

*

_(Ed/the Riddler’s POV)_

Blue acted like a magnet, when his eyes surfaced from the darkness of night.

He’d woken up at Jim’s side for months, and every single time, it still amazed him, the visceral _attraction _he felt whenever that sharp gaze found him amidst the sheets and drank him in like him, Edward Nygma, the Riddler, embodied the elixir needed to keep those yes alight and swirling with purpose. There were so many emotions in there, so many paths to take, it was no wonder they loved him.

Jim had always been an open book for him. For Oswald, too. He was shy in his demands at first (Oswald liked to _demand _in bed, but Jim hesitated, always careful, in a way Oswald was in many, many other aspects of their lives in which neither Jim nor him could afford to be), but with time, and a great deal of patience, he began to ask. Not beg; Jim didn’t like to beg. Neither did the Riddler, but then Ed liked to beg a great deal, enough for all of them.

“Kiss me.”

Jim enjoyed their mouths on him. Oswald gave head so sensuously, and he would drive Jim to the edge and back, merciless in his devotion, or perhaps devoted in his mercy, while Ed watched, the heel of his palm digging into the bulge of his pants. And when the temptation became too much, the Riddler would climb into bed to join his lovers, and tilt Jim’s head just so to devour the praise and the moans that satiated him better than the _crème de la crème _of fine cuisine. He would kiss Jim’s mouth _raw_ while Oswald rode him tortuously slowly, drunk on the taste of him, on the chance he’d given them, utterly lost in the mirror oceans that always watched.

Once, he’d said love was a weakness.

Later, he’d stopped to think about the tableau they made, the three of them, the cop, the riddler and the mobster, always running in circles around each other. It made for a ridiculous picture. A parody of what they could be, if they stopped fighting what pulled them towards each other. They were a three-body riddle, blue, green and purple, a bouquet of expectations, dreams and ambitions that coalesced into this unique relationship, Gotham’s Unholy Trinity. They all had thorns, and they bled each other, unwillingly, and healed each other too, because they belonged to each other, together, and every night found them back in their home, gathered in the four-poster bed Oswald had ordered custom-made for them.

And they slept peacefully, coaxed by each other’s body heat.

Jim rested sprawled on an entire half of the mattress, on his belly, face turned towards Oswald. So very vulnerable. On lazy mornings when no new unimaginative witless villain threatened to tear down or burn the city to ashes, he would kiss his way up Jim’s spine, then down, and part his ass cheeks to dip his tongue in his hole. And if he got to taste Oswald’s cum while he was at it, gently tormenting Jim into awakening, all the better.

Oswald usually slept curled up on his side, holding the hand Jim left accessible for him and breathing in his scent as if he meant to inhale the very essence of his dreams. Oswald was possessive like that.

He also liked to have Ed wrapped up around him, guarding his back. Or the Riddler, holding him close with a hand around his neck, sheathing himself in the tight heat of Oswald’s ass as Jim took care of his mouth. They made sense, together, in a city where madness thought to rule.

They were in full bloom.


End file.
